Shapeshifter - 1. Meet and greet

Shapeshifter, a, noun

(line break: shape|shif|ter) - A mythical creature born with the ability to shift from human to animal shape at will. A shapeshifter has a single animal shape similar to natural wild or mythical animals, that represents a perfect simile to its human shape in age.

~ Almanac of Babylon City

**Kelaste**

I sighed, breathing in the cool spring air. It was one of those nights, the cold, windy ones, which made me restless, made me leave my safe apartment, made me try to get lost in the dirty districts of the ghetto. Away, just away from the prickly clean streets of the Central District and down into the abyss of dirt, crime and poverty.

Babylon City’s ghetto was divided in three different big districts: the Eastern Ghetto, the Western Ghetto and the Dark City. They had had other names at one point and there were subdivisions to each of them with more official denotations, like Irish Town in the Western Ghetto or Little Italy and the Southern Industrial District in the Eastern Ghetto, but for the police and most other citizens they were all the same. A place you shouldn’t be caught dead.

I kept myself mostly to the Eastern ghetto, and I stayed as close to the adjacent Border District as I could. I had never been in the Southern Industrial District part, it was too dangerous a place even for me, although I often heard rumors about the Dark City being even worse. The more pressing reason for me keeping to the north of the Eastern Ghetto on my trips was the abundance of night clubs and dance bars I frequented.

I knew I would stand out from the typical crowd as I approached the 'Philtre', one of the few nightclubs near the district borders. The entrance was crammed with waiting people, most of them wearing the typical tattered clothes of the Punk lifestyle with a few black clothed Goths in between the mohawked folk. My violet leather jacket embossed with snake skin patterns would be the first indication that I 'wasn't from around here', but if someone saw the Versace brand on my skin tight leather trousers, I'd be done for. The ghetto people hated nothing more than the 'rich bastards from Central', and my attire screamed MONEY in capital letters.

So why was I here, I mused, watching the busy nightclub from a distance. Was it a death wish? Finally ending my existence of boredom and loneliness as I should have done many times before?

Maybe.

With flaring nostrils, I started walking again, hands in the pockets of my jacket, the teased strands of my pitch black hair bouncing in the spring breeze. I had just turned nineteen, a slim, elegant figure of barely male build, as sweet and innocent looking as can be. Some people misjudged me for someone younger, sixteen maybe, rather a boy than a young man, but didn't all teenagers look the same?

My looks had been an advantage before, sparing me from a good few punches when I had hooked up with the wrong crowd, but on evenings like this one I was pretty sure I'd get into trouble for 'looking too young'. If it were me doing the judging I would have gone for ‘looking too alien’ or maybe ‘being a freak’, but nobody was asking me.

There was a cluster of patrons trying to get inside, but no line. The entrance was dotted with people smoking or waiting for someone, giving the impression of good business, but if you tried to get in there was almost no waiting time. I liked that, I didn’t like to wait. Waiting always meant trouble.

Approaching the bouncer, I fingered for my ID, pulling it out before the man could say anything. A ripped poster at the steel door announced the band 'Angerhammer', a fitting name for the shrieking noise coming from behind the thick felt curtain covering the door frame. The bouncer took his time comparing the ID to my face, and I couldn't help but smile at his guarded facial expression. How often had I gotten exactly that look? Finally, I got motioned inside, took my ID with a purring "Thank you," and walked through the curtains.

The room smelled of sweat, beer and cigarettes, mixed with the still lingering aroma of disinfectants; an artificial, wonderful scent that buried itself deep inside my brain. It was one of the advantages- or maybe disadvantages- of being a shape-shifter, to have this increased ability to smell and remember scents that made my life a sweet agony of memories and nostalgia; that made it worth living a bit longer. If for some reason some day I couldn’t venture into the world anymore, I probably would finally get over my indecisiveness and choose death. Until then, there was nothing better than burying my nose in the stink of life at its purest.

Angerhammer still jammed and mutilated their instruments, entertaining a crammed, but small crowd of head-banging drunks, filling the room with the angry sneer of raw emotions. Just a bit too loud, and a bit too tuneless, I decided, as I weaved my way through the audience, making my way to the bar at the other side of the room. Flashes of blue light danced over my body as I passed the stroboscope, blinded by the intensity of the small gadget. For a second, I couldn't see anything but black and white specks dancing in front of my eyes, and when I ran into something solid, I didn't realize it was a person rather than the counter itself.

"How about a 'Sorry', scrap?" a slightly hoarse, but agreeable voice growled right next to my ear, while a strong hand grabbed my arm and made me register my mistake.

Slowly, my eyesight returned to normal, and I found myself in front of a slender, muscular man dressed in typical ripped black army-pants and a muscle shirt with a band logo I didn't recognize. He was one of those people who neither looked willowy nor buffed, but still gave off the aura of force and strength. Piercings of every known flavor adorned his nose, brows, lips and ears, fitting perfectly with the bleached blond Mohawk haircut and the slightly amused expression on his face.

It took me nearly thirty seconds to stop staring and mutter "Sorry" before I remembered how to breathe, and more importantly, how to blush.

It wasn't that this guy had the looks, he didn't act charming or lovely at all. Just shy of 6’ in height, he loomed over me just a little, storm blue eyes staring down at me with a mixture of good-natured humor and a note of volatile intent, as if undecided as to whether he should grab me and ruffle my hair, or just break my neck. He didn't even look clean, with his tangled clothes and grazed boots and all, smelling faintly of beer, smoke and a slight aroma of Axe beneath fresh sweat. The piercings made him just a bit too archaic for my normal tastes, but there was something, something about the sight of that guy that just got me off. That one look was enough to get me hooked, and the sudden intensity of my lust for him made me very afraid.

I didn’t do well with fear, but I had learned to mask it.

A smile, cocky and purely kittenish, crawled across my face, and with a good amount of internal horror, I watched myself chirp right into the stranger’s face, "How about you get a beer for you an' me, and I'll pay?"

Fighting the urge to run away, I watched Mohawk think, returning his solemn look with a purely charming one. I knew myself, knew this state of auto-piloting through socially awkward moments, and I knew that Mohawk there wouldn't see anything that revealed my real feelings. Nothing except a young guy, a boy, getting hot over him and overdoing the friendliness just a bit.

This was my safety valve, being able to flirt and piss off my chosen one at the same time.

Finally, Mohawk seemed to come to a decision and gestured to the barkeeper who started muttering low voiced complaints about giving away alcohol to minors, but was shut up fast when he saw the large banknote I handed over to my new friend. Money talked, and I knew I'd have gotten the beer even without the help of my pierced companion. This way it was just a bit less awkward, and I wrung out a smile when I reached for one of the bottles.

Mohawk seemed to have another idea though, and just before I could grab the bottle, he pulled it up and out of my reach. Well, I could have leaned in and tried to snatch it from his hand while pressing myself against the front of my new friend, but the thought alone made me shudder excitedly, so I didn't even try it. Nothing ruined the mood as fast as pressing an emerging hard-on against the knee of a straight guy. If he wasn’t straight, he’d take it as an invitation, but if he was, there was a good chance he’d beat me up. I didn’t want to take that risk.

"How old are ya'?" Mohawk drawled with a slightly husky voice that told a story of too many cigarettes and whisky, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, as he wagged the upheld bottle a bit.

A low sigh escaped my lips, then I smiled shyly. "Nineteen. Getting on your moral high ground there, gramps?" At the same time I scolded myself silently for my teasing him, trying not to cringe under the stare of my new acquaintance but returning it with a seemingly effortless smile.

Mohawk frowned, then he broke into a grin and offered me the bottle with a wink. "Can't blame an old man for worrying, can you?"

I snorted, then grinned back, taking a sip. He couldn’t be much older than twenty-five I mused, registering the absence of crow's feet, or any signs of wrinkles. Not too old, not too young, probably already sexually established, presumably NOT interested in guys. Gay folk didn't dress like this, I thought, and fought to keep my smile in place.

There was no reason to waste any more time on fawning over him to no end, so I shot one last smile at Mohawk before stepping back and purring "You can keep the change, as a little thank you for getting me the beer." Inside, I hoped to piss off that decidedly too hot guy and get going. The tightness in my skin tight trousers was killing me, and I pulled my jacket closer around myself to hide the obvious state of my libido without thinking about it.

Outwardly, I sauntered away like a confident little kitten, without haste or rush, smiling to myself. Inside, I was running screaming at the mere thought of touching that guy. I couldn't have stopped if I had started.

I was sure I could decide to not be gay. Well, pretty sure. Maybe. The sight of a nude male didn't leave me dripping pre-cum and drooling brainlessly, and I didn't check out random guys in bars or pubs, well most of the time. Couldn't be one-hunded percent gay, having had more girlfriends in my short life than some celebrities. I was okay with girls, and they liked me up to a certain point. But sometimes, occasionally, I met someone that awakened some deep, dark lust inside me, mostly because of a glance, a special scent, a gesture. If my father had known about those moments, he’d have beaten me, or sent me to one of those anti-gay camps, so I tried to shove those thoughts away as much as possible. Still, it was like a curse, living in this world of permanent temptations, and I had been taught a way to deal with this - drugs.

I left the main room and headed for the toilets, entering a hallway next to the bar. Here, it was dark, cool, smelling faintly of the sharp pang that heroin gave off when heated, cigarettes and vomit. Unclean would have been incorrect, and dirty didn't cover the extent of refuse and dirt covering the floor. The furious whines of Angerhammer were dampened by the whirring of a ventilation system and the bubbling of the busy drainpipes. I took a few moments to enjoy the quietness of this rotten piece of space.

Out of this quietness, the sounds of urgent, hushed copulation emerged, giving me an idea of the multiple ways to 'use' a bathroom. It got pretty clear that emptying the ol' bladder wasn't top priority in this part of the 'Philtre', and the mere thought made my stomach clench in excitement; firstly, because I admitted to being a voyeur in relation to every flavor of sex, and secondly, because I didn't intend to pay cash for my fix today.

With silent steps, I paced through the few bystanders- some of them waiting to actually pee, some of them waiting for a customer- and looked for someone giving away the 'dealer-vibe'. They weren't hard to spot if you knew what you were looking for, and it didn't take long to find the local one, a thin, unclean-looking pale guy with stubble on his chin and greasy hair. His steady fidgeting gave him away as a dealer/user and made me look for an alternative for a few seconds. Users weren't into sex as payment as much as clean dealers, but the latter were way harder to find. Sure enough, I didn't spot anyone else, and finally gave in with a sigh.

I approached the weasely-looking guy with a small smile, unpackaged my 'nervous, but hopeful'-expression, and started the verbal tug o' war over payment for a simple H-fix. Guys like this dealer did get their claws into some women now and then, but most of them were sick already, or thin like broomsticks, and here I had an advantage - I was beautiful, not handsome, my features a bit girlish, definitely not masculine, and I liked to wear a hint of make-up and skin tight clothing. Also, I couldn’t get sick and there weren’t many options for me to get my rocks off with a guy and still convince myself I wasn't gay, so I always tried to get dealers to bypass money and accept a blowjob. If you went down the drug alley far enough, you didn't care for the gender anymore, as long as you could pretend.

Pretending it was a girl sucking his dick was what Joey the dealer did a few minutes later. Leaning against the tile wall of the men's room, trousers open and tugged down enough to expose his lean cock. He had a firm grip on my hair, as if afraid of getting bitten. He hadn’t even asked if I had money to pay for my fix.

Joey’s crotch smelled of sweat and day old clothes, and the wetness of the stained floor was slowly soaking my knees, but I ignored those incommodities. The frustrated sexual tension that had built up while dealing with Mohawk before now went into the working of my tongue. I delved into the exploration of Joey’s cock, working the tip of my tongue around the small slit on the tip of Joey's prick before sucking him deeper to scan for the bulging veins on the underside of his shaft. Joey gave a coarse, hushed groan, as I put a bit of pressure behind my sucking and pulled my head into his crotch with a sharp tug that made me gasp. Feeling my own cock twitch in sweet agony against the tightness of my pants, I gasped softly and worked my tongue harder down Joey’s length. Slurping, wet sounds filled the bathroom, and even though I couldn't stop and peek, I felt the intense glares of bystanders after a few moments.

An audience, perfect! My mind purred in utter delight and made me work my head down until Joey's prick pushed into the back of my throat. As much as I loved doing this and hated having to do it with people I didn’t find attractive, I still relished the rush of lust and excitement I got from it, even more so if I knew I was being watched.

The dealer uttered a low oath. His shaft twitched one time, then a second time, and then he grasped my head more harshly and bucked into my mouth, hot semen flooding down my gullet. It took him quite some time, giving me the sensation of suffocating before he let go of me. As he pulled out, a thread of spunk dribbled out of the corner of my mouth, making Joey raise his hand to scoop it up with two fingers and wipe it into his trousers.

Then Joey seemed to realize we had been watched, swore under his breath and let a small plastic baggie fall onto the floor before fleeing the scene.

Sated for now, I picked up the baggie, and shook it a bit to inspect the grey contents. Most of the time you had to be pretty careful on what you injected because some dealers tended to give one-timers unclean drugs to save money, but the powder looked pretty good. Tasting it with one finger, I took a good look around to find a solution for the other small problem that kept me from getting into subspace--someone to inject the H.

I hated needles up to an extent where I rather risked a full-blown turkey than doing it myself. Not that this had ever happened, there was always some junkie who'd do it for me for a few bucks.

Right now, two shabby, starved looking creatures stood near the exit of the men's room and mustered me with the dead eyes usually reserved for carnivores. Was I prey, or was I not? One of them eyed the small plastic bag in my hand with an intense glare. He had a green close-cut mohawk, his clothing tangled and dirty beyond anything wearable, face pale like a ghost, thick black rings around his eyes. His left hand shook with small, hasty tremors, giving away his need for a fix.

Before the guy could decide on jumping me and giving me a good whack, I waved him closer, and husked, "Enough for both of us, mate, what'cha say?"

We locked ourselves into one of the cubicles and got the shots ready in no time. My new companion smelled of sweat and dirty skin, a fine thread of sickness in the stink that surrounded him. HIV positive, I concluded, while unpacking my one-way-syringe, once again grateful over having enough money to buy such small conveniences.

When the other man injected the shot into my arm, I was surprised by the concentrated carefulness the guy applied as he tried not to hurt me even with his shaking hands. He must have been a good-hearted, nice fellow once, I thought to myself, and ignored the pain that thought brought to my heart.

No use getting all melancholic over strangers, I chastised myself, biting my tongue to stop myself from asking questions that were none of my business.

Luckily, the H started racing through my body, made me gasp softly, cleared my head to the point of burning bliss and let me sink back onto the toilet seat, while my helper injected his own shot, and stumbled out of the cubicle with a grunted "Cheers!". Most days, I despised my father for getting me hooked on drugs, but right after a shot there was nothing but glorious numbness in me.

I watched the two junkies leave with a trance-like stare, pondering about the fact that I had forgotten to ask my fixing partner if he wanted a blowjob too, as a kind of thanks. It took me nearly two minutes to realize that someone was leaning against the wall opposite my cubicle-kingdom, staring at me in amused silence. Another thirty seconds went by as I reviewed my audience with crawling-slow thoughts, until I realized that it was the mohawked guy I had been all hot over before. Then my heart started to race, pumping adrenaline-drowned blood into my brain - and into my loin.

I gasped, then froze as I realized what the guy held in his right hand.

Mohawk had a gun pointed at me, still smiling.

~*~

"Wait!" I cried with upheld hands.

"What for? You're a done deal, mate," Mohawk sneered, the corners of his mouth twitching at some private joke, while he flicked off the safety, taking his time. It was a Beretta, a big, powerful handgun with a chromed muzzle, and it didn't look fake.

For a second, I had to fight against the urge to throw up as my stomach clenched into a tight ball, fighting to get back my voice. He had seen the kind of cash bills I had, so maybe he was here to rob me. He couldn't really want to kill me, right? I wasn't worth anything to him dead.

"Don't shoot! I've got money, if that's what you want!" I cried out while gasping for breath, still holding up my hands as if I could summon a bulletproof wall. The sudden fear for my life made my conscience laugh silently, but at the same time it felt intoxicating to drown in this panic. Was it like this when you loved your life?

Too tense to shiver, I watched him hesitate just a little, nothing but a small shift in his stance. I could see the thoughts work behind Mohawk's eyes, although his face looked empty and composed. Fuck, he really had intended to kill me. But why? Could he have been paid to come here a kill me?

His facial expression made my cock twitch. I had never met anyone with less emotion for death than myself, but there he stood, looking at me like a piece of mediocre meat he was considering buying. What would this man do to me if I brought him into my home to give him money? Would he even consider the money instead of the kill? Surely, he'd been paid to come here and kill me, which was a step up from the two or three attempts to kidnap me and extort money from my filthy rich father. He had to be getting money for this, right? No one would kill a boy just because he'd been rude, now, would they? But why would someone pay to have me killed this time instead of kidnapping me? Unless...

"What kinda money?" Mohawk drawled after an eternity, gun never wavering. His steel-blue eyes pierced into mine with an intense gaze.

I made a short pause as my cock tried to pierce through the leather of my trousers, excited beyond anything I normally felt by the threat of death. How the hell was I still so turned on by this man when he was threatening my life? Then I estimated the contents of my safe, and answered with a hopeful lilt in my voice: "Ten thousand dollars." At least that was the contents of my day-to-day-safe. I had more on my bank account I could bargain with if that wasn’t enough.

This time I could see something in the eyes of my captor, a short flicker of interest, some small piece of human greed going on in his head. A leverage I could identify, and I jumped right for it.

"I don't got more cash money, but you could have my TV, it's a flat-screen, 36 inches? And maybe, maybe some other stuff? I really don't wanna die here," I whimpered, words tumbling hastily from my lips. And security cameras, a team of roughnecks to kick him right back where he belonged, and a panic room... All just a penthouse away. I blinked rapidly at the black maw of the Beretta, trying not to give away my thoughts.

Again, I could see Mohawk thinking, estimating the value against the problems, then he put up the gun and took three steps into the cubicle to grab me. His hand wrapped around my elbow to pull me onto my feet.

"You come with me, scrap," he rasped, smiling broadly, as he spun me around and pushed me out of the cubicle without letting go of my arm.

A second later, I could feel Mohawk's hand wandering beneath my jacket, then the muzzle of the Beretta pressed against my kidney.

"Move it, scrap. Time's wasting."

We left the 'Philtre' in silence, my captor pressed against my back, mimicking a loving embrace while the gun stayed where it was with steadfast constancy. I was led on with continuous firmness, getting directions through steady pulls and shoves that went smoothly with our pace. It was a strange, nearly intimate feeling of security to be handled that way, and it left me panting with anxious nervousness and a faint prickle of lust. Angerhammer had stopped shrieking, so the room was quieter than before, but people were still dancing in drunken stupor, shaking their bodies to the sound of recorded music, making it hard to reach the exit straight away.

Time seemed to slow down, then stop, when Mohawk pushed me out onto the streets, shadowing my movements with the slickness of a snake.

"Where's your car?" he whispered, his breath touching my earlobe when he wound his body around me, playing the one-night-lover for nosy bystanders, and only the gun pressed against my back ruined my short daydream about this being a true tryst.

I caught my breath with a low hiss, trying to make it sound nervous instead of excited, and failing when I felt Mohawk's crotch pressed against my backside. I felt a definite stiffness that shouldn't have been there, rubbing against me with thoughtless intensity. Then Mohawk bit my earlobe, tugged on it sharply, and reminded me that a question had been asked, but not answered.

I shivered, gasping for air through clenched teeth, fighting the urge to rub against the hot bulge pressed against my ass, then pointed down the road at the sign of a lone video-surveillanced parking lot only a few buildings down the road.

"Parked there," I panted, trying to stand very still and ignore the tightness in my own pants. Behind me, I heard Mohawk swear silently, then a firm tug set us in motion again.

"No funny business in front of the security cameras. If you think you can be clever there, I'll shoot you. I will put up the gun now, but there are other ways to kill you. One would be to put my switchblade against your kidney, like this," I felt the gun move away, then being replaced with another metal object, the hilt of a switchblade knife I guessed, "and just pull the switch twice. In, out, dead, no one will see why you toppled over, they'll think I just helped your drunk arse home and had to carry you. Getting my point?"

I nodded hastily, trying to pull my jacket around myself more firmly to hide my erection, and the cold metal hilt disappeared from my back, as we entered the parking lot. A warm, muscled arm wound around my waist, pulling me close to an equally warm body, and for the few seconds it took us to approach my Lotus Europa, I could pretend we really were a couple, walking home from a night out. The feeling of being pressed against another man's hip, bathing in his scent and body heat made my head spin with lust, and at one point, I could have sworn that Mohawk peeked down at my crotch after I made another small, humming sound of indulgence.

Then we reached the sports car, and Mohawk whistled in appreciation as he examined the unique paint job. The Lotus had a magnetic double-colored 3D-paint, showing pearl silver color when examined from the front and switching to a reddish copper color if you moved to the back.

"Damn it, scrap, now I do believe you have the ten thousand dollars in cash," Mohawk rasped, then his hand grabbed my neck, spun me around, and shoved me against the side of the car. Just a second later, Mohawk pressed his whole body against me, moving a leg between my knees to pin my abdomen against the car, only stopping for the length of a heartbeat when he felt the hard bulge in my crotch.

Then his other arm twined around my torso, and I could feel hot, soft lips against my neck as Mohawk bent down his head, and mimicked a kiss while whispering, "Aww, scrap, are you hot for me or do you hide a gun down there?"

Any other time, I would have laughed at such a stupid joke, but somehow I knew that something would follow that statement, and I was proven right.

As he released my neck, strong, manicured fingers groped my hard, pulsing crotch right through my tight trousers, stroking me slowly and with perfectly measured pressure. My body shivered excitedly, then a slow, huffed moan escaped my lips as I leaned more heavily against my car, closing my eyes to concentrate on the knowing touch. Some of the tension seeped away silently, and just for a few seconds I was able to pretend that none of the things before this moment had happened. I would be able to touch him. I had to touch him.

The hand disappeared from my crotch, leaving me with a distinct feeling of loneliness.

"Get going, scrap. We've got things to do," Mohawk grunted and gave me a good shove. Then he climbed into the Lotus.